Missed You
by woodbyne
Summary: The very last person he expected to see there was the boy whose letters lay crumpled in his pocket. A decade's worth of letters. A decade's worth of confiding and secrets. A decade's worth of letters that all signed off the same words; "I know you've missed me. Because I've missed you." AU Franada mentions of past paedophilia. The more things stay the same... Sequel to Missed Me.


**This is the ending of Missed Me, in case anyone was suffering under the delusion that it was a love story, or that it had a happy ending. This has been sitting on my hard drive for months, I just needed to work through a lot of writer's block. I promise, I'm all over everything! If you're waiting for it, I'm working on it.**

The very last person he expected to see there was the boy whose letters lay crumpled in his pocket. A decade's worth of letters. A decade's worth of confiding and secrets. A decade's worth of letters that all signed off the same words.

_I know you've missed me._

_Because I've missed you. _

But as the letters became more and more infrequent, stopping finally in this last six-month stretch, Francis Bonnefoy had put quite firmly out of mind the little boy whose fault it was that he had even had to enter into that hell-hole in the first place. Little Matthew Williams with soft blond hair and big indigo eyes that peaked so sweetly over the thin rims of his glasses. The fine, white-gold down that stroked in a feathered brush over supple, pale limbs. Plush lips that tasted of honey and purity; so dearly pink that they almost begged to be kissed. To be pressed harshly against a twin set of butterfly-pink. To be pinned between pearly white enamel and kissed, nipped, bitten until that honey is gone and the purity is soiled so all that remains is the adult mockery of childhood that sways so temptingly at lecherous old men and tumbles them into bed.

But this… this _thing_ that stood before him was not the pale faun that played its siren-song in the springtime of his life. No. Gone were the slim, soft curves of his dear legs, the furred-fray of those cut off jean-shorts that he knew would entice the Frenchman into sin. This was not his Matthieu anymore, no longer his _petit ange_.

This… This was a monster; born from the fragile shell of his boy, this man had appeared. Grotesquely broad and unpleasantly thick. Limbs that should have been slender, soft and pliant had been corded with sinew, strong, tough. Everything no-one wants in a steak. An obvious effort had been made to look similar. The hair was the same length, the glasses the same style, the same tie. But it was warped. Someone had put dear Matthieu in front of a funhouse mirror and reflected him into a man.

A man who wore a fond smile, as though he were looking back nostalgically on sepia photographs of his youth. Matthew stepped forward, his arms locking around the Frenchman, pulling him gently into a hug. Almost reflexively, Francis put his hand to the small of the Canadian's back.

And that was all he needed.

Matthew's grip tightened, and although he was now taller than Francis, he snuggled against him in much the same way as a child might, nuzzling his face into the Frenchman's neck. He ignored the smell of stale cigarettes and harsh prison soap, choosing to focus on the faint but lingering smell of his Mister. It was just there beneath all the grime and weariness. Is that why Mister Francis hadn't spoken yet? Because he was tired? Probably. Who knows what kinds of horrible things had happened to his dear, dear Mister in that horrible place.

Francis was repulsed. He could feel large hands fisting in the thin, worn fabric of his jacket. Very large hands, so large so that they might engulf his own. He could feel the way the man was stooped to hug him. He could feel the roughness of shaven skin against his neck, and his stomach baulked at the very idea of his little Matthieu ever having a beard. What had happened to that soft, plush skin? He shuddered, and the man sighed. Hot, sticky breath clouding unpleasantly against his neck.

What was this stranger's motive? Was this hug for closure? Was he going to beat Francis when it broke? As though he needed another beating. It was hard to get by once people discover that you've taken a child.

But still, he couldn't bring himself to regret a single one of those moments he had spent inside his beautiful little boy.

Or at least, he didn't until now, when the thing his boy had become was quite possibly going to break his face. He wasn't as young as he used to be. Healing wouldn't be so easy.

"I've missed you so much," the quiet whispered words reached his ears and Francis stiffened.

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew hummed a jaunty, staccato tune, tapping the steering wheel in time, and the Frenchman recognised it as a child's rhyme. _Missed me, missed, me, now you've gotta kiss me_.

_Kiss me, Mister_.

A shudder ran cold, dextrous fingers down his spine. His Mister. A thousand pleasant memories imploded as he looked at the Canadian beside him. His wide smile, the excited innocence in his eyes. He'd seen that look before in wide indigo eyes that stared eagerly through flashing lenses.

"I've missed you so much. I can't believe they gave you a whole decade. It's not even like you did anything wrong. Stupid Alfred. I think he was just jealous," Matthew's voice was soft a low, breathy with joy as he laughed, and Francis could have wept. What had happened to the high, fluting giggle that haunted his dreams? What had he done to deserve the rough, throaty chuckle that this grotesque man gave him?

"Matthew," he began softly, not sure where this conversation was going, but definitely sure that he didn't like it. Doubt and nervous tension were climbing their way slowly up his spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, climbing to warn him of what he didn't know.

"I've kept the old place exactly like you left it. Well, I clean and stuff, and it's got some of my things there now, but that's okay, right?" He tossed a bright, innocent smile to the Frenchman beside him, those indigo eyes a horrible reminder of years gone passed. There were such sweet memories in those eyes, but Francis couldn't bear to see them. Not in that face and with that body, "It'll be just like it used to be. I'm so glad you're back." The childish fervour in his voice was sickening.

"Matthew," he said again, more firmly this time, demanding attention. He felt sick, shaking and trembling, and the Frenchman realised for the first time in ten years that he was truly afraid.

"_Petit_," the Canadian corrected with a slight frown in the corner of his mouth, "You always call me _petit_."

"But you are no longer small," Francis' voice shook, "Why are you doing this? You know what I am."

"But I'll always be yours," that out-of-place smile, giddy with false childhood was back in place on Matthew's cracked lips, "Of course I do; you're my Mister, and I love you."

This was so very wrong. So very, very wrong. Where had this changed from his petit into this man? Where had this gone from love to fear.

"I'm a paedophile," he whispered hoarsely, "What do you expect from me?"

The frown returned, more pronounced as brows pulled down to frame it.

"You're my Mister," he repeated firmly. "You love me. I've been waiting for you."

"Don't call me that. I'm- I'm you know," he couldn't say it again. "I love _children_."

"You love me." There was a growl to the words as the Canadian pulled over onto the shoulder, turning to face the man he had waited so long to see and hold. Couldn't Francis just hold him again, and love him the way he used to? Things had been so perfect back then, and he had waited so long.

The pleading in Matthew's eyes was gut wrenchingly painful.

"You are not a child," he said gently, trying to soften the blow.

"No," red-blond hair whipped against pale cheeks as Matthew shook his head in vehement denial, "Don't say that. I love you. It's okay, it's legal now. We don't have to hide from anyone who doesn't understand."

"If I loved you, I never would have touched you."

"NO!" the yell was bomb-blast loud in the confined space of the car. There was no anger in Matthew's eyes, only hurt, and that was the worst, "No. You can't say that. You love me. Please. You have to love me."

"I'm sorry," the words were horribly empty. Sorry didn't even begin to cover all the wrong he had done. Francis hung his head, "I wish I could take back what I did to you."

"Get out." Matthew's eyes were fixed on the thin strip of dead grass on which his stationary tires rested. "Get out of my car."

Without another word, Francis unclipped his seatbelt and opened the door and got out, standing and watching as the car screamed in protest, kicking up dirt as it sped away.

"Adieu, Petit," he said hollowly.

~====o)0(o====~

Alfred stared his phone. An unknown number? Oh well, hopefully it wasn't a telemarketer. But at least he had something to occupy his mind as he sliced vegetables for dinner. He'd done the recipe a couple of times before as practise, but he'd thought it might be nice to make his girlfriend's favourite tonight.

"Hello? Alfred Jones, speaking." He smiled, decapitating a carrot.

"_Al_?" The voice on the other end was unfamiliar, and sad, but there was something about it that made him pause.

"Who is this?" Silence seemed to stretch on for a momentary eternity.

"_It's me, Al. Matthew_." The bottom dropped out of the American's stomach.

"Mattie?" he asked hoarsely, "Is it really you?" Ten years. Ten whole years, almost to the day since he had heard from his brother and now… Oh God. He knew what was coming.

"_I know I shouldn't have called, but… You were right. You were right this whole time. He never loved me_." There were tears in that voice, valiantly fought back tears, but tears all the same.

"I'm sorry, Mattie," was all he could say.


End file.
